


Bound and Bought

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Slavery, Spells & Enchantments, forced stripping, magic binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:35:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27235099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: For many years now, Deathstroke has been a scourge on Dick's kingdom. Powerful, dangerous and unstoppable. So cue his surprise when one day an unknown warrior drags the mercenary into his court in chains. Dick's not sure how this stranger was able to capture someone as deadly as Deathstroke, but one thing is certain. He can't pass up the opportunity to take their most ferocious opponent off the battlefield once and for all, no matter what it costs him.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 18
Kudos: 186
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	Bound and Bought

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Here's our joint fic for this year's SladeRobin week. This time for the Day 3 prompt 'Slavery'. This one's not terribly shippy, though there is a brief implied attraction between characters during one moment. Hope you enjoy!

Dick knows something's not right the second the man's brought into the throne room, pulled to kneel two dozen steps away from the raised steps of the dais. He knows him. Of course he does. It would be impossible for him not to know the champion warrior of some of his father's greatest enemies. A ghost, flitting from army to army, until he lands and becomes an all-too-real giant on the battlefield. Death-dealer and warrior, larger than life and so proficient at his work they say he must have struck a deal with some god. Something to give him his terrible strength and his inhuman speed.

Deathstroke. _Here_. Kneeling in the middle of his throne room with his wrists in dark metal manacles and one cold, pale blue eye fixed right on him.

Jason, standing at his side, shifts forward and half-draws his sword with a rasp of steel, coiled and bleeding wariness through the faint thread of the bond they share, prince and defender. Cueing off him, the rest of the guards in the room shift to be at the ready as well, and still Dick doesn't feel entirely at ease. It isn't solely the bleed from Jason's emotions, either.

"Your Royal Highness," the man standing beside his kneeling enemy says, voice high and proud, even as he bends into a deep bow.

He's not a soldier, Dick can tell that much at a glance. He's not in Gotham colors, nor Bludhaven's, and the leather armor he wears is too fine and well-fitted to be worn by someone not already in position of a good deal of wealth. Someone from a wealthy family, maybe, but not one based in his city. He knows by heart the members of the wealthiest bloodlines in his city, and this man isn't one of them. (There's the easier clues, too; that his accent is slightly off and his skin darker than what's commonly found in Gotham and her territories. Not always a good indicator, but joined to the other hints, Dick's inclined to trust what it indicates.)

"'Raptor,' isn't it?" Not his given name, but the yellow eyes of the man show how he earned it.

"It is, Highness."

Dick does his level best not to show how he can practically feel the burn of that single-eyed gaze, daring him to meet it. He holds Raptor's, instead. "You were allowed an audience because you said you had something of value to me to sell."

He doesn't particularly like how Raptor smiles, wide and with too much teeth in the flash of it. "What could be more valuable than a never before beaten champion, Prince?”

“He doesn’t look very beaten to me.” Jason chooses then to interrupt. All his attention remains warily focused on the kneeling prisoner. “How do we know this isn’t some trick to get him past our defences so he can murder us in our sleep?”

Dick reaches out a hand in front of him, the gesture one meant to put the illusion of chastisement for a guard speaking out of turn, all while he secretly radiates approval at the question down their bond. “My champion has a good point. Aside from the chains, he doesn’t look very subdued.”

“I assume you’re referring to the lack of bruising.” Raptor’s smile doesn’t slip even for an instant. “The great Deathstroke heals fast, as I’m sure you’ve heard, and in this case, his bonds are made of more than steel.” He’s close enough to lift a hand and settle it on Deathstroke’s shoulder, seemingly without a care in the world. “Take off your clothes.”

Dick tenses, expecting resistance. They all do. After all, what man would willingly disrobe before his enemies? And for a moment, he thinks he sees it, as a flash of hot rage passes over Deathstroke’s eye, only to vanish and be replaced by cool calm a moment later. Then, bizarrely, he begins to do as Raptor ordered.

“What the shit?” Jason mumbles under his breath, a sentiment Dick absolutely agrees with.

It’s awkward, since Deathstroke’s hands are cuffed together. He manages to get his trousers off easily enough, but his shirt is more difficult. A problem Deathstroke eventually evidently decides to solve in an easier manner than contorting his limbs by simply fisting his hands in the front of the material and ripping it from his shoulders. Jason sucks in a breath at his side, and Dick might think it was shock at the reveal of the glowing orange runes inked in circles around the length of each arm, spreading out over his shoulders in complicated bursts, except that he can feel a sharp burst of arousal that isn’t his own as well.

He takes a glance at Jason and follows the direction of his gaze for a moment — aimed further down than the runes, certainly — before bringing his own higher to study those runes.

He can’t see all of them, not with how Deathstroke settles on his feet, and how the runes twist around the muscle of his arms. He can’t read them all either; he knows _some_ rune-work, but it’s never been his specialty, and these are intensely complicated ones. He can pick out enough, though.

There are runes for control and obedience, intermixed with ones for long-lasting effect. Something about countering interference… and that’s about where his knowledge ends. Maybe there’s more in there, but the basic idea seems clear enough.

Control.

"As you can see," Raptor says, patting the side of Deathstroke's arm where he now stands, nude but for the hanging of the chains that don't cover near enough of what's between his legs to matter, "he's under control. The magic makes him obedient to any commands given by the one it's bound to. He's incapable of causing damage to the runes, and incapable of harming his owner, either. That control can be transferred, for the right price."

Transferrable, complete control of someone, with multiple levels of safeguards. No wonder Dick can't read much of the work. Barbara probably could, but she's a kingdom away and he very much doubts that this 'Raptor' is going to wait long enough for her to arrive and double-check his claims. He's… inclined to believe it. Theoretically. Those runes must have some function, and surely if Deathstroke wanted to infiltrate his castle and cut his head from his shoulders, there would be easier ways of doing it. Less humiliating ways.

Dick considers the work. "How did you manage to get those runes on his skin?"

Raptor's smile is sleazier than most of the other lords and merchants that Dick's met, in his years as heir. "Let's say I'm a… hunter of people. I have my ways of ensuring cooperation."

"You're a slave trader." Jason's voice is sharp and not — unlike Raptor's — cloaked in any level of subtlety.

One or two of the guards around the room shift slightly in place, fingers curling a little more firmly around their weapons. Slave-trading is… frowned upon within Gotham's territories, but still legal. The measures in place around such sales are harsher than most other kingdoms however, and most traders choose to do their business outside of their lands and let the new owners bring them back in. They've taken steps to make sure of that.

"Sometimes. And sometimes I'm merely a collector of… exotic goods."

_Like people_ , Dick thinks but doesn't say. He's sure there are arguments to be made that Deathstroke is only a prisoner, clearly not branded or otherwise slave-marked, and thus clearly _isn't_ a slave. He's sure Raptor will make those arguments, and more he hasn't thought of, and they'll circle around and around and never get anywhere. That's the way of people like this.

"What makes you think I'd want him?" Dick asks instead, clasping his hands. "I don't claim ownership over people."

"Of course not. It was simply the reputation of the man that made me choose this method of binding; if ropes and chains would have sufficed, I'd have used those instead." Raptor's smile doesn't sharpen, exactly, but his eyes narrow just a fraction and his voice gains a pointedly careless edge."Similarly, I trust in the reputation of the Waynes to treat a defeated foe honorably, but if you don't have any interest in taking responsibility for him, I'm sure there are others who would be interested."

It's not _quite_ treason, and not _quite_ a threat, but it's close enough to both that Dick has no trouble reading the implication. He can pay this slave trader's price, gain ownership and control he doesn't want over this man, or Raptor will take him to some other kingdom that would love to have a lethally skilled, famed warrior at heel. Ra's would be his first guess, but far from his last. There are always people willing to profit off the work of others, especially those with no opportunity to say no, and there are plenty of people that would use him against them in a heartbeat.

No, he doesn't want to buy Deathstroke. He doesn't want ownership, or to give Raptor even a coin in reward for this deed. But the idea of letting someone else have a warrior as deadly as Deathstroke under their complete, absolute control is… unthinkable.

No man deserves to have his freedom taken from him, either. Here, at least, they can work to break the magic and imprison Deathstroke in more humane ways. (And no one will force him to strip down to skin just to prove a point. Or for any other reason.)

Against his better judgment, Dick asks, "What's the price?"

* * *

It's absurd, is what it is. Dick doesn't know a vast amount about what slaves are priced at, but he knows enough to know that even for a warrior like Slade, the price Raptor eventually comes down to is still ridiculously high. It's more in line with a ransom than a slave-price, and it makes a certain kind of sense but that doesn't mean that Dick has to appreciate the logic. He doesn't have to appreciate the haggling either, trying to convince Raptor to drop the price just a little, and a little more, and _down_ to something reasonable.

It's not reasonable, but it's less, anyway. Unfortunately, he's fairly sure that's the best it's going to get. Raptor knows the value of what he has, and he knows that it would take worse than an inflated price for Dick to refuse the offer. Their enemies can't be allowed to have control of Deathstroke, and at the end of the day it's just money.

Bruce will understand, when he explains, and there are always ways to gain more coin.

"Ready then, your Royal Highness?" Raptor asks, pushing back his sleeves.

He stands from his throne, offering a nod. "I am."

It's the one victory that Dick did manage to outright win, in their argument. The transfer happens first, _then_ Raptor gets his payment. (He'd turned his words back on him for that, about 'trusting' in their reputation. Surely he _trusted_ that he'd get paid then, right?) It's not something that Raptor was pleased about, and it took what Dick might graciously refer to as harassment to accomplish, but he did eliminate that threat before it began.

He didn't actually believe that Raptor would take his coin and then set Deathstroke on them all, but the possibility remained.

“I wish one of our own mages was here to check what he was doing.” Jason mutters, as Raptor begins.

“So do I,” Dick whispers back, “But I doubt our new ‘friend’ will be happy to wait for them to get here. I’m not much keen on putting up with his presence longer than I have to, either.”

“Agreed on that.” Jason punctuates the sentiment with a wave of feeling across their bond, then settles back to watch the proceedings with a wary eye.

Dick expects something showy, what with how theatrical Raptor has been so far, but it’s nothing of the sort. The man speaks words of power, to be true, in the mystic tongue that matches the brands on Deathstroke’s body, but he doesn’t make a performance of it. One hand goes on Deathstroke’s shoulder, while the other extends outwards to Dick.

“Your hand, Highness,” Raptor says, “to complete the transference.”

Dick’s eyes flick down to his palm for a moment, then begrudgingly gives it. After that, a number of things happen in swift succession. Raptor’s fingers brush his hand, warmth following in the wake of them as runes brighten to life on his skin in a swirl of deep blue magic. The glowing marks down Deathstroke’s arms bleed into a matching blue. Raptor smiles.

And then there’s a big, pale hand slamming over that smile, and Dick can’t do anything but begin to inhale before there’s a wrench of the hand and a _crack_.

It feels like Raptor falls in slow motion, and Deathstroke is already turning his direction. He has a dagger in his hand — where did he get a _blade?_ — that splits the air faster than Dick can pull backwards and presses to his throat while he’s still anticipating the spray of his blood across the floor.

He freezes.

Jason shouts something wordless and alarmed, the rasp of his sword coming free one of a dozen others in the room. Deathstroke’s single eye doesn’t look at any of them.

“Tell your men to stand down,” Deathstroke says, his voice deep and low. “Or we’ll find out whether your little guards would rather fight me or keep you from bleeding out.”

Dick's fairly sure that his guards wouldn't want to fight Deathstroke even in better conditions than that, but he's not about to point that out. The binding must not have transferred properly. Maybe Raptor did it wrong, or he didn’t get a chance to fully transfer it before Deathstroke struck.

"Let him _go_ ," Jason snarls from at his side, before he can respond. The worry, fear, and anger bleeding from him are a sharp tingle down Dick's spine. "You'll never make it out of here."

Deathstroke's gaze flicks to him for just a moment, mouth pulling into a slight grin before he looks back at Dick. "We'll see." The blade presses slightly harder against his throat, the flat side cold and threatening against his skin. "Well, Prince?"

He doesn't see any other choice. Dick slowly lifts a hand towards Jason. "Stand down," he orders, lifting his voice enough to make sure it carries across the room.

There's hesitation, and he feels it reverberate in his chest from Jason, but the raised swords across the room lower, one by one. Frustration burns at his stomach; most of it isn't his, but it might as well be.

Deathstroke's mouth curls to a smirk. "Good choice, boy."

Dick swallows. The dagger pulls sharply away from his throat to allow for the bob, and then returns.

Wait. Did it…?

"The idiot at my feet has the key to these cuffs. Why don't you sheath that sword and find it, little guard dog?"

Jason snarls.

Dick breathes in, and before he can think too hard about the possible consequences he says, " _Drop the dagger_ ," with as much force as he can manage.

The arm holding the dagger twitches, a sharp blue eye narrowing as it looks at him, and right as Dick thinks he's about to get his throat cut for the arrogance the blade pulls back. It hits the ground a half-second later, tossed aside by the flick of a hand to land harmlessly on the floor in a clatter of steel.

Dick swallows, relief flooding him as much as a heady surge of power. “Now, step away from me.”

Again, Deathstroke obeys. It is just a singular step he takes, glaring all the while, but it leaves enough room for Dick to breathe again, as well as for Jason to rush forward to his side.

"Are you alright?" Jason demands, pushing him back with one hand to make space for him to get between them. His sword is raised, point hovering only a few inches off from Deathstroke's collarbone to keep him at bay.

This time, Dick sees it before it actually happens.

"Stop!" he orders, and Deathstroke's burst of movement comes to a sharp halt. Hand only a couple inches from the hilt of Jason's sword, chain stretched up and tight with his other hand to block the edge of the blade. "Don't attack or hurt anyone," he rushes out, before anything else can happen.

Deathstroke stares over Jason's shoulder at him for a moment, and then scoffs quietly and straightens up, ignoring how Jason's recoiled and moved to bring the sword farther up and away from any possible grab, point lifted to his throat. He doesn't seem to care, and his gaze is for Dick alone.

Dick breathes in and flexes his hands, holding that gaze best he can. "I'm alright. He can't hurt me. Or you."

The binding worked. It's real. Or at least it seems like it. But there was that moment in the middle where Raptor no longer had control, and Dick hadn't yet given any commands. The perfect opportunity to strike, and obviously Deathstroke knew that. Cover the mouth to stop Raptor saying anything to ruin it, kill him, and then pretend it didn't work. Threaten without any intent to harm, so the restrictions wouldn't stop him, and use his fear to escape before he knew any different.

It almost worked.

"For now, kid," Deathstroke says, still completely ignoring the sword. "I wouldn't count on this holding me forever."

"It doesn't need to hold you forever." Dick lifts his chin, forcing himself to ignore the phantom chill still lingering at his throat, where the blade pressed. He settles his weight, raises his voice to carry to the rest of the room, guards and the lingering couple men that came with Raptor, too. "You'll be imprisoned until a trial can be held to hold you accountable for your actions in battle against our kingdom. As soon as an alternative method of restraint can be decided on, this will be removed. We don't enslave prisoners."

There's a flicker of a smirk. "Sure you don't. And of course you don't buy slaves, either." The blue eye flickers down towards Raptor's body, on the ground. "I guess you still haven't. You're welcome."

This time, the irritation that slices through him is all his. "Put your pants back on."

Somehow, as Deathstroke steps away with a smirk and collects his discarded clothing from the floor — minus that shredded shirt — Dick doesn't feel like he's the one in control. Jason steps back to his side, sword held low but not being put away. They share a glance.

Even without the emotion rebounding in his chest, Dick knows he and Jason share exactly the same thought.

This is going to be tough.

**Author's Note:**

> [Skali's tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Fire's tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)


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